lather, rise, repeat
by puertoricanjane
Summary: She knows she shouldn't confuse this act of kindness for anything else, but it's hard, when Aerith is draping a towel over her shoulders, when Aerith is warm at her back, humming as she works a thick lather across her hands.


"You have monster gunk in your hair," Aerith says with a cheerful flippancy that is so distinctly Aerith and Tifa huffs out something between a sigh and a laugh.

Aerith beams at her, like that little not-laugh is some kind of victory, and well, maybe it is. Tifa wouldn't have thought it possible but here she is, with the guts of a monster she has just taken apart with her own hands splattered in her hair, and still finding it in her to give Aerith a smile. It just figures; wonders, small or otherwise, are kind of Aerith's thing.

"I guess it's my lucky day," Tifa says dryly, before peering down at her gloves. They are in a similar, wonderful state of covered-in-monster-guts and Tifa makes a face before shrugging them off. The grass around them makes for some good cleaning prospects but she really can't be bothered at the moment. Experience has taught her that it's a lost cause anyway: she'd only end up repeating the process when they inevitably run into another monster.

That cheerful thought almost makes her want to chuck her gloves as far away from her as possible but Tifa sets them down gently beside her instead. Master Zangan had taught her to always treat her fighting gloves with care.

When she straightens back up, it's to find Aerith much closer than she was five seconds ago and regarding her with something of a lopsided smile. After half a second of confused blinking, Tifa manages to return it. It feels strange on her own face though; maybe it's the heat she can feel creeping up in it, because Aerith is really standing rather close, close enough that Tifa fancies she can count the individual specks in her friend's eyes.

It's not bad, she thinks. Just...close.

And then Aerith is reaching up a hand, up into her hair, and Tifa has barely felt the weight of it settle before her brain starts shutting down.

"Um," Tifa says, because she never knows how to respond to a bewildering Aerith. The heat in her face is worse than ever. She prays she isn't blushing because god, how embarrassing would that be. Aerith would never let her live it down.

"The nerve of those monsters, really," Aerith says. "Don't they know your hair is supposed to be off limits?" She punctuates that point by trailing her hand through it and Tifa's throat feels oddly tight. She wants to reply with a joke, something effortlessly witty that'll make Aerith's eyes gleam with laughter, but the words aren't coming to her. That kind of unaffected breeziness is more Aerith than Tifa.

Tifa closes her eyes and focuses on breathing. It's easier than she thought it would be. Acute embarrassment aside, Aerith's fingers combing through her hair feels good and, well, she could use a little good with the day she's been having. It's making her a little drowsy though, in a way that suddenly reminds Tifa of her mother. She would do this for her after a nightmare or if Tifa was having trouble getting to sleep; hum a lullaby and run her fingers through her hair. Tifa would always drift off into sleep with a smile, feeling like the most cherished girl in the world.

She feels a little of that now with Aerith, except she wants - she wants...

Tifa stubbornly ignores what she wants, because she likes this all a bit more than she should. She likes how Aerith's hands are just as work-worn and calloused as her own; her father always said a person's hands tells you more about their life than their words ever could and Aerith's hands tell her of someone who is not unaccustomed to hard work or fighting. They also tell her of gentleness. She can feel it in the way Aerith handles her hair like Tifa imagines she must have handled her flowers. She never got to see it herself but she knows that Aerith must have showed them just as much tender consideration.

Tifa is effectively wrenched from her thoughts when Aerith's fingers still in her hair. Curious, she opens her eyes to see Aerith looking at a lock of hair with strange contemplation. Aerith gives a little shake of her head and grins in apology when she catches Tifa's eye.

"Heh, sorry, Tifa! I was just thinking about how pretty it'd be if I tied off some of your hair in ribbons. Not that it isn't already pretty! You have beautiful hair," Aerith reassures her.

Tifa finds that words come a lot easier now. "I have split ends," she says. Then with heavy emphasis: "And monster gunk."

Aerith merely waves her free hand, as if to say 'details'. "Oh, there's not as much gunk as you think. When we get to an inn we'll have it clean in no time."

Everything stutters to a stop.

"Um," Tifa says again. Ordinarily she'd be frustrated with this sudden backslide in her communication skills but right now the world has narrowed down to Aerith saying _we'll have it clean in no time_. She must have heard wrong; there's no way Aerith was suggesting what she thought she was suggesting. "We?"

Aerith sighs and looks very put-upon, a look she often wears when Tifa doesn't grasp something she says right away. "Yes, silly! What, did you think I was going to let you get this gunk out of your hair alone?"

"Yes?" Tifa says, because really, what did Aerith think she was going to say?

Aerith rolls her eyes. "Honestly," she mutters, but her mouth quirks into a smile shortly after. Still smiling, she says, "Just let me wash your hair, okay?"

And it almost sounds like something on the table, a friendly offer that you could take or leave at your own choosing, but Aerith's tone brooks no arguments, no two ways about it, and for all Tifa's confusion it's just so Aerith she has to bite back a laugh.

"Okay," Tifa says simply. She feels the weight of it settle in the pit of her stomach and the way Aerith is grinning like the cat that ate the canary isn't really helping matters.

"Alright then! Let's get a move on, shall we?"

Then she's withdrawing her hand from Tifa's hair and Tifa suddenly wants to grab her wrist, catch her sleeve, do something, anything, but all she does is stand and watch as Aerith pivots on her heel, her braid whipping out behind her.

Tifa sighs and slips her gloves back on. There's nothing she can do at this point but follow.

* * *

When they get to the inn Cloud has already beaten them there and booked them rooms for the night. They find him bickering with Barret, a favorite past-time of theirs since the moment they met. Usually their hopeless posturing only succeeds in annoying her but this time she shares a look of amusement with Aerith, because really, it's just too funny, how Cloud has to crane his head back to look up at Barret's towering form. Cloud always holds his ground like Barret isn't bigger or taller than him; shoulders back, standing on his toes, and leaning up into Barret's face with a smug smirk that Tifa is convinced he perfected solely for their interactions. There's a slight smile tugging at his lips when Barret gesticulates wildly with his gun-arm though, very blink-and-you-miss-it, but Tifa has become pretty proficient at reading Cloud's facial expressions.

She thinks Aerith sees it too because she nudges Tifa in the side and whispers "Boys!" with a roll of her eyes.

Tifa snorts and then clasps a hand over her nose and mouth. But there's no time for embarrassment over unattractive noises to sink in, because Aerith is giving her a dazzling grin and removing Tifa's fingers from her face. Like that's something people can just do. And that's as far as that train of thought goes, because Aerith then brings her hand back down to her side and laces their fingers together like it's nothing.

Tifa stares down at their joined hands and wonders, inexplicably, if there is monster gunk under her nails.

"Come on," Aerith says, still whispering. Cloud and Barret haven't noticed them at all; they're too caught up in flinging increasingly nonsensical insults and pretending they aren't as fond of each other as they really are.

Tifa gives a jerky nod in their direction. "Shouldn't we...?" She trails off, the 'tell them that we're here' going unspoken, but Aerith seems to understand from the way she huffs at her.

"Oh, fine," Aerith says in an undertone, then raises her voice enough to startle them out of their respective leaning and glaring. "Cloud, Barret, Tifa and I are going to spend some girl time together, okay?"

Aerith doesn't stick around to say anything more, just gives them a jaunty wave, and then she's tugging at Tifa's hand until she's almost stumbling behind her, talking excitedly of how the innkeeper says there is a kitchenette in the adjoining room.

The last thing Tifa sees before Aerith drags her off is Barret mouthing 'girl time?' to an equally befuddled-looking Cloud, who just shrugs in answer.

* * *

Aerith had initially beamed at the sight of the kitchenette but then she drew closer and started eyeing the faucet drain with particular wariness. After a moment more of examination she nods once, briskly, and then gets down to the business of cleaning it. Tifa doesn't get why she's bothering; it looks pretty clean to her and it's not as if her hair could get any worse.

She tells Aerith as much, pulling a lock of hair to her nose and taking an exaggerated sniff for good measure. Her look of disgust isn't even contrived, but Aerith just primly tells her that the point is to get gunk out of her hair, not put more in it, and continues scrubbing the sink to spotless perfection.

Tifa hovers uncertainly behind her for a couple seconds before settling on the edge of the nearest bed. A thread of the quilt has come undone and she picks at it with her nail. No monster gunk that she can see, and that makes some of the tightness in her chest lessen. They're short though; Tifa has always had a terrible habit of biting her nails, has ever since she was young. "A natural worrier," Mama would say with a laugh, and then take her hands and paint them for her - a bright blue, to match her favorite dress, or maybe a sunny yellow. Tifa can't remember if they were ever the shade of pink that Aerith favors. She hasn't worn any since her mother died.

She blinks; she's pulled the thread loose. She lets it drop to the floor and leans back on her hands so she doesn't do something embarrassing, like bite her nails.

The water stops running and she sees Aerith reach for a towel to wipe off her hands before facing her. There's a strand of hair stuck to the corner of her smile. Tifa wants to brush it away for her but she can't just do things like that. She's not Aerith. Tifa is good when the going gets tough; can snap into action in a heartbeat and do whatever needs to be done, but here she hesitates and frets over the slightest action, feeling tremendously out of her depth.

"All clean," Aerith says happily. The hair moves with her mouth and Aerith finally notices, removing it with a little laugh. Her smile widens when Tifa doesn't as much as move. "Well, come on then! You're not going to sit on that bed all day, are you?"

She wishes it was a possibility. "Don't you need a towel? For my hair, I mean."

Aerith cocks a teasing eyebrow and gestures to the towel and shampoo she already has set out on the counter. Tifa flushes and then goes over to the sink; she can't tell if the feeling that's gotten her stomach in knots is anticipation or terror. Aerith is her friend, her best one, and she knows she shouldn't confuse this act of kindness for anything else, but it's hard, when Aerith is draping a towel over her shoulders, when Aerith is warm at her back, humming as she works a thick lather across her hands.

Tifa closes her eyes. She doesn't want to get shampoo in them but she finds that that just heightens the sensations more. Aerith's fingers are strong and sure at her scalp, and it hurts a little but in a way that Tifa surprisingly likes. It's more pleasant than anything and it curls through her whole body, making Tifa want to squirm. She doesn't; years of martial arts training have taught her to how to keep her body perfectly still, but it'd be a close thing if not for that.

After a while she realizes Aerith is talking. Tifa tries to focus on the words. "You have such beautiful hair. It's perfect for running your hands through, like silk is passing through your fingers. Really, I'm almost jealous." Aerith's fingers suddenly pull a little and Tifa makes an unintelligible noise, loud enough for Aerith to hear over the sound of the running water. "Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't hurt you, did I?"

There's a familiar dryness in her throat. Tifa swallows, giving a wordless shake of her head. She thinks she hears a smile in Aerith's voice, but no, that can't be right. She must be imagining things.

Aerith's hands gentle nonetheless and Tifa feels a strange pang of loss. She has to bite down on a sudden torrent of words, threatening to burst out of her like a geyser: _I like you pulling my hair. I like you touching it, me, period; whether you're gentle or rough, I like it, I like you._

The words stick in her throat. Tifa has become something of an expert at not saying what's she's thinking or feeling.

Aerith finishes sooner than Tifa would have liked, but considering Aerith has spent a decent amount of time washing her hair any time would have been too soon for her, she supposes. She lets Aerith towel off her hair for her. Tifa expects her to step away when she's done, for the balance in their relationship to be restored with that careful measure of distance. Instead, she remains pressed against Tifa's back. Her chin comes to rest on Tifa's shoulder, and the whisper of breath against her neck almost makes her miss Aerith's words entirely.

"I've been flirting with you this whole time, you know," Aerith says, far too casually.

Tifa's eyes widen. Her nails bite into her fists. She doesn't know how to feel. Probably elation or relief, but her stomach just clenches in a way that makes her feel slightly nauseous.

She stares blankly ahead for a couple seconds before deciding this is a conversation they should be having face-to-face. She turns around to face her, making Aerith take a step back.

It feels farther than it really is, like any distance after such close proximity is too much.

"I...wouldn't have gotten that," Tifa says, picking her words slowly. She's been ineloquent enough for one day after all. "I don't think it's just me. Most people wouldn't interpret an offer to get monster gunk out of hair as a romantic overture."

Aerith shrugs, merely offering a grin. "I'm not most people."

It's true. Aerith isn't like anyone else she has ever met, even without the Cetra thing. She's funny and bold in a way that leaves Tifa in awe when she's not getting the daylights confused out of her by it. Though she is not without her share of social awkwardness; Aerith can be a little too brusque at times, for all the kindness Tifa knows she possesses. But she's beautiful and mysterious, down to earth while managing to operate on another wave of frequency altogether. She's Aerith and it feels like a revelation when really, it's the simplest thing in the world.

"You're right," Tifa says after a long moment, and her voice sounds strangely hushed to her own ears.

She takes in a breath to steady herself and then closes a hand around Aerith's hip. Tifa pulls her closer, minimizing the space between them until it's all but nonexistent. It makes Aerith's eyes brighten in a way she's never seen before. It's a look Tifa could find herself getting used to, like the feel of Aerith's hands in her hair, or her breath on her cheek.

"I always am," Aerith murmurs, wrapping an arm around Tifa's neck. She tugs on a wisp of Tifa's hair, wet and clinging to her face, and it reminds Tifa of her earlier hesitation, how she wanted to pull that hair away from Aerith's mouth but didn't.

Tifa thinks _No more hesitation_, and then: _I want to taste that smile._

She leans down and does just that.


End file.
